Why do you do stupid things?

There are many types of people that bother me: young, old, tall, short, pretty, ugly, and everyone in-between. Their commonality - in relation to me - is they’re strangers, and I like to keep it that way.

But, the one person who I can’t stand is the kind (I personally know) that does stupid things and knows he/she does stupid things. That’s not it, though. They do stupid things on repeat. Over and over, again. It’s like they only have amnesiac tendencies for idiocy.

These lines are often repeated…

I don’t know why I keep on falling for jerks.
I don’t know why I’m hung over after only drinking for several hours.
I don’t know why I can’t lose weight when I eat crap and don't exercise.
I don’t know why I'm sick in the winter when I wear no warm clothes.

Chances are, everyone knows someone who is like this. And, if they don’t, then they’re one of them and don't realize it (because they're also members of the club).

What can you do? Nothing.

Most of them (if not all of them) are lost causes. You can teach them tips of the trade, but it won’t make a difference. And, that’s terrible because you want to help them, but they don’t – not can’t – help themselves because they are programmed not to.

And, to me, that's not stupid, but unfortunate.

God can't teach worth shit

It has been said that certain things happen to certain people because God wants to teach them a lesson. Unfortunately, not everyone learns the meaning of the message. It could be the student is stupid, or God can’t teach worth shit.

A few years ago, a cousin of mine underwent a radical surgery to correct an asymmetry in his upper body. He was lopsided after going through puberty while hunching over and to the side (due to a lack of self-esteem). The operation was extreme and the recovery was painful.

Not too long after, he was diagnosed with leukemia. He went through the same routines that many sufferers go through: the medication, the hair falling out, the weight loss, etc. When he was given a – conditional – clean bill of health, the family breathed a sigh of relief. They thought the worse was behind them.

Then, a few months ago, he relapsed. No one is sure (and no one is telling) what happened. But, one thing was known: his body was finally giving up. When awake, he told his family and doctors to let him go in peace. There was no use; he was going in and out of consciousness, and into a comatose state.

He died three days before my birthday.

Coming back to lessons taught and lessons learned, I begin to wonder what God was trying to teach him. There are millions of people who suffer through an ailment only to recover (or not). There are few who suffer through three illnesses and live to tell about them.

It’s doubtful that God had a good reason to do this. This isn’t a baseball analogy – three strikes and you’re out. This is someone’s life, and a young someone at that. Whether the lack of understanding is due to the student or the teacher, is unknown. What is known is that God can use a little subtlety with his teaching techniques.

Blah to Bailey's

For some reason, I have been receiving bottle upon bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream as gifts for years. This is strange to me. I have never told anyone I liked Bailey’s, and no one has ever seen me drink the stuff, either. Yet, that hasn’t stopped them from spending their money on something that has no use to me.

The first bottle was a nice gesture. It gathered dust in the liquor cabinet until my mother got her hands on it and lapped it up. She did the same thing to the second bottle I received. The third, fourth, and fifth bottles were all holiday gifts (namely, they came in special packages with glasses emblazoned with the Bailey’s name). They are sitting in the liquor cabinet, untouched.

One day, after rummaging through the bottles for a drink, I find the three bottles there and I wonder why anyone would want to keep on giving me the same thing.

So, I ask my mother if she wants the bottles, in return for a couple of bottles of liquor I do drink, like vodka or scotch. Thankfully, she agrees and complies with my request. It’s a good thing I know my mother likes Bailey’s; they’ll find a good home even though they’ll be empty pretty quickly.

Looky loo

In every Saturday edition of the newspaper, there’s the “Home” section which talks about trends in design/décor and real estate. As someone who appreciates both topics, I typically read this section first.

As I’m flipping through the pages, I see something that I am not accustomed to: a master suite open to an ensuite – no doors between the rooms.

The architect and/or designer who thought of this should be bludgeoned to an inch of his life with a 2X4… then shot.

Out of all the rooms in a residence, the loo should have a door. It’s the room where you can only perform one action that shouldn’t be performed in any other room. It’s the most private of private actions. No one should see what you’re doing in there because everyone knows what you’re doing in there.

Now, I’m the sort of person who likes rooms to have doors. Rooms which have no doors are called outdoors. Indoor rooms should have the option of privacy. Windows have curtains and openings should have doors.

And, if not for the issue of privacy, think about your bedroom smelling like last night’s Tex-Mex fiesta of refried beans and pork after having someone sit on the throne for 20 minutes.

Uncle, I love you

As I’m lying down in bed, reading a magazine, my niece storms through the door and begins tugging on my shirt.

"Uncle, come. Come now!" she says as she continues to tug on my sleeve, not knowing that I don’t slide easily off of the bedspread. After unrolling off the bed, I follow her to whereever she's leading me.

"What is it? B. What is it?"

"Come, Uncle. Come."

We both go to the kitchen and I stop her in her tracks. I pull back on her arm as she attempts to pull me forward. I have no idea what she wants and she hasn’t said much beside “Come Uncle.”

"B, what is it that you want?" I bend down towards her.

"Run. I want to run." She begins to jog in place, on the spot.

"You want to run? But, it’s cold outside." I wrap my arms around myself and mock shiver.

"No, not outside." She huffs and gives me attitude. "On the machine!"

What machine is she talking…? Oh, that machine. The treadmill. Ugh.

"The machine is broken." It's a partial truth. The treadmill can't work if it isn't plugged in and if the safety cord is missing. As a safety precaution, I had already unplugged it, and in case she plugged it back in, removed the safety cord so it wouldn't work.

"Awww…" she begins to mewl like an injured cat. I can’t stand the sound, especially when it’s amplified in the hallway.

"I’m sorry, it’s broken, B."

"Uncle, IIIII LOOOOOVE YOOOOUUUUU." This is something I never expect her to say. She only uses that line on her parents and grandparents to get what she wants. Unfortunately, she’s dealing with Uncle Steven, and Uncle Steven doesn’t fall for cute. Whiny only pisses him off even more.

"B, I love you, too, but it’s broken." I smooth out the flyaways in her hair.

"MWAHHHHH…" once again, she grabs onto my sleeve, and throws herself on the floor, in a crying heap.

Because I don’t know what else do to in this situation, I take a note from the passive-aggressive handbook which I am in the process of writing (Random House, 2009), and walk away while she continues to cry on the floor. I do this for about 30 seconds, notice that she doesn't stop, then come back into the kitchen.

"Hey, B, do you wanna watch Dora?"

"Um..." She tugs on her sleeve, wipes her runny nose with it, and nods her head.

"Good, let's watch some TV." I lead her into the living room and we both sit down in front of the television. I know it isn't the best way to stop her from impersonating a dying cat, but it's a salvation of sorts, if only until she forgets about the treadmill.

Of course, I'm praying the show is on, because if it isn't, then I'm going to have to go for a run.

I wear my sunglasses at night

What happens when you forget your glasses in your car and end up wearing sunglasses because it’s really sunny outside, then forget you have them on when it gets dark, have a conniption in public, walk around the city at night while impersonating Ray Charles, shop at children's stores for your nieces while looking like a pedophile in your shades, but then don't take off the glasses when seeing a movie where Philip Seymour Hoffman’s ass is flopping around on a 100-foot screen as he’s buttfucking Marisa Tomei?

I have no fuckin' clue, but I know I'll never wear sunglasses again... unless I look really cool in them.

She'll always be single

As S and I are sitting in the coffee shop, the conversation begins to verge in the direction of relationships. Mostly, she’s talking about ones that are ideal and the ones that don’t work.

She doesn’t have very stringent criteria, but it’s hard to find it all in one man.

To her, an ideal relationship is one that allows her to have someone there for companionship (when she wants it), to pay for whatever she wants (when she wants it, or when she's broke), to take care of her in her time of need (when she wants it), to have sex (when she wants it), to do the occasional home renovation (when she wants it), and to cook and clean (when she wants it, which is all the time).

Tolkien couldn’t write a better fantasy.

Although I wish her the best with her search, I don't think she’s going to find him. Come to think of it, I think she's always be single because there is no man that can live with that criteria, or those standards.

Thankfully, she already owns two cats...

Acquaintances with benefits

“Friends with benefits” is a widely-used term used to describe two people who have a relationship (but are not dating) and have sex with each other. When they have an itch, the other is there to scratch it for them. It’s a very simple – and carnal – version of quid pro quo.

But, I always thought of it as being a rather complicated scenario. What happens when you’re no longer friends? Should you still expect a little action? What happens when you want it to be something else, but the other person wants to continue with what you have?

To alleviate all of that, I think it’s best to come up with a new relationship: acquaintances with benefits.

Basically, it’s the same relationship as the aforementioned one, but there’s no emotional attachment involved. You can spend time with them, have a drink, go shopping, etc. before falling into bed. It makes you feel less sullied (especially if one-nighters aren’t your thing), and there’s none of the messiness involved if things take a turn for the worse.

It’s win-win for both parties.

It’s too bad I have very few acquaintances that I would want to fuck.

Freezing my balls off

It’s cold outside. Very cold. The temperature is dropping and the winds are picking up. There’s a difference of almost ten degrees from a couple of days ago. Yet, I’m leaving the confines of my home and trekking outdoors to meet up with G.

I dress warmly, with several layers, but don’t want to resemble a marshmallow. The down-filled parka stays at home. A shirt, a sweater, a pair of longer boxer-briefs, thicker jeans, a padded jacket, toque, scarf and gloves is what I have on.

The drive downtown isn’t bad, since I have the heater inside the car directing hot air towards the windshield and my feet. When I leave the car… that’s another story. It’s even colder than before.

Since G is supposed to call me at 7 p.m. to know where we’re meeting before going out, I walk up and down Yonge Street, going into a couple of stores. I stop at College Park and sit down, against a wall, reading a copy of Now Magazine.

As the time passes, I begin to wonder what happened to G. It’s been 20 minutes. Maybe something happened. Maybe G forgot, I think. I try to call, but there’s no answer. To kill time, I walk up to the Manulife Centre.

I’d rather be inside a building with heat instead of walking outside, freezing my balls off. The only benefits are the gusts of wind that immobilize my face, producing a Botox-like effect. Nicole Kidman should be so lucky. But moving helps produce friction (and therefore, heat).

If G calls, I can take the subway down, I try to convince myself I’m not being ditched.

A few magazines are read and I look at my phone to see if there are any missed calls. No. Not one. I begin to feel agitated and tense. The words on the page aren’t doing anything to help me forget what’s happening. In order to clear my head of these thoughts, I head back outside to the congested noise of the street.

I walk to the Eaton’s Centre because I know I can use the Apple Store’s computers to check my e-mail in case there’s a message.

At the Apple Store, I log onto my account and check if there are any new messages. There are three, but none are from G. Damnit. What the fuck is going on? You better not be ditching me after I hauled my ass outside to meet up.

Out of frustration and desperation, I write a quick e-mail asking if things are ok. Additionally, I throw in that I’ve been waiting for two hours in the cold. It’s very passive-aggressive, but it’s no use. I was ditched.

When I get home, I shed my layers of clothing and check my e-mail one last time before going off to bed. There’s nothing new in my inbox. With that, I delete all of the correspondence between me and G. It’s done in a calm manner, as if to say, I wash my hands of you.

On Sunday morning, I receive an e-mail from G with an excuse about a marathon. I suspect it had nothing to do with running. My balls defrost while I write my curt reply that can castrate any man from 100 miles away...

Extra-credit assignment

Now, class…

I realize there aren’t many of you that come on a daily basis. By the looks of it, the eight of you who do choose to appear try participate when you’re not carving initials in your desk, passing around notes (I do have eyes, so don’t think I can’t see you), or sniffing glue stolen from the art department.

So, I’ve decided to make up a little something for the keeners out there; an extra-credit assignment. There are a few who regularly participate, but I’d also like those of you who don’t raise your hand to take part, as well.

The assignment is very simple and contains only one question: Why do you come to this class?

Surely, there must be a reason. It's here, mostly for you. Write your answers on a piece of paper and drop it into my inbox - not in the comments section. If you’d like to remain anonymous, I will respect your wishes and not divulge any names.

The responses will be edited for space and content and then posted.

If you wish to participate, please do so.

If not, you may continue sniffing glue.

Class dismissed.

A dictionary is a book of words

As my parents and I are sitting at Tim Horton’s and drinking coffee, the conversation veers into something controversial that my mother doesn’t have a good concept of. She immediately sides with the ‘non-guilty’ party and this pisses my father off.

“You’re being naïve,” he tells her from across the table.

“Naïve? What’s that?” she almost yells back. I bring my mug close to my mouth and blow away some steam.

“Naïve…” My father waves his hand around. “It’s someone who’s innocent and stupid.”

I almost spit out my coffee into the mug while trying to stifle a laugh.

“What?” My mother gives me the evil eye. “You like to make fun of your mother, don’t you?” She points at me and at my father with her index finger.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what?!”

“I’m actually surprised dad got the term naïve right. He usually uses the wrong word to try and describe something.” And, it’s true.

My father has a bad habit of describing certain people, places, or things while using the wrong words. He still doesn’t know what ironic means, even after having me teach him several times and using it in context (and in several languages). When he runs off to pick up a dictionary to prove me wrong, he gets peeved because he realizes I’m right all along. Afterwards, he uses the excuse that he shouldn’t know what certain words mean because he didn’t get to go to University like I did (which doesn’t make any sense because I still look in the dictionary to verify words I’m not sure of – unlike him).

Hmmm... I wonder if he looked up naïve in the dictionary before leaving the house.

Crank up the heat

Being someone who rates his physical attractiveness a 6.5/10, I find it unsettling when an 8-10/10 gives me an ounce of their attention, especially when their attention is that of the physical kind.

Inside, I get weirded out because I know they’re way too hot for me. Putting all thoughts of cynicism aside, my physiological reaction is to tense my muscles while my stomach turns. Immediately, I feel insecure because, when around that much heat, I’m only lukewarm.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I stop myself from going any further. I may look dumb, but I’m not stupid.

When I mention the issue of being a 6.5 to F, he says I have to work on my self-esteem. My self-esteem isn’t the problem. I have self-esteem falling out of my mouth when I open it. I know I have an assload of internal qualities that are desirable to many, but external qualities are another thing. That’s judged with another set of criteria.

What I need to work on is my self-worth when it comes to image. I know what I see when I look in the mirror. I’m not (totally) blind. Overall, the total package is okay, but okay doesn’t cut it in this world. Hotness is universal. There are very few people who disagree on the subject, and those who do are immune to any form of heat.

Herein lies the issue: How does a 6.5/10 crank up the heat to a 7/10 when an 8-10/10 thinks they’re hot?

Sidekick

Fred and Barney. Bart and Millhouse. Lucy and Ethel. Buffy and Willow. The Lone Ranger and Tonto.

Whether they’re animated, attempting to get into Ricky’s show, trying to save the world, or trotting around the country with a horse, there are no good partnerships without chemistry.

Even though I have friends that I can do things with, I feel there is no connection between us the way the aforementioned pairs have. True, all of the pairs mentioned were highly scripted and directed, but knowing that your partner in crime is going to be there for your adventures in life is what makes it fun. Who needs to have a wife/husband, when your sidekick is a hell of a lot more entertaining to be around?

Where is my sidekick? Around somewhere? Anywhere? Are there any takers?

I just want to have someone around that wants to do things with me, no matter what it is. We don’t have to wear spandex uniforms (although I would be pretty hot in it, but that would be due to the high polyester content). In fact, we’ll go shopping for some clothes and I’ll pick out something that’s suitable for exciting escapades.

We don’t have to save the world, but I wouldn’t mind kicking some ass.

It's only free if you ask

Being someone who doesn’t like to abuse his immense power towards the plebian masses, I find it difficult to ask for things that aren’t rightfully mine. But, if it’s your birthday, then you have carte blanche to ask for anything and no one will refuse.

**

I’ve finished my lunch of fresh pasta with prosciutto at Bar One on Queen West, and I tell the server it was delicious after taking a sip of my full-fat cappuccino. It’s only when I pay the bill that I tell her that it's my birthday and celebrating it by myself. She feels bad for me and says she could’ve done something special for me if I told her sooner.

Hmmm, I think in my head. Is this what happens when it’s your birthday? You get something for free? I guess it’s only free if you ask. Wait, she isn’t talking about something sexual, is she? If so, that's not included in the tip.

As I saunter down the street, I go into several stores, but don’t ask for anything since I already get a designer discount at most places. When I enter Dufflet Pastries, I know I have to milk this sad-sack cow for every cent its worth.

“I was wondering if you could put a candle in that pastry so that I could sing happy birthday to myself,” I say after selecting a chocolate tart.

“Sure,” says the server.

“Well, you know, no one wanted to do anything with me today,” I make a sad face, “so I have to celebrate all by myself.” Like any good Catholic, I lay on the grief on top of the guilt.

“Oh, that’s so sad. Wait, let me give you a special discount.”

Only a discount? Shouldn’t I get it for free? Oh well…

To commemorate the event, I have her take a photo of me sitting down, blowing out a candle on top of the dessert. It's a momento for when I want to make those who ditched me feel like shit the next time I talk to them.

For the rest of the day, I wander in and out of multiple establishments and use the same story: it’s my birthday. I act the part of someone who was neglected by his selfish friends because they’d rather put themselves first. And, it works.

When I step into the sex shop, I look for cock rings. For some reason, I wear them out like running shoes. It must be the friction. Even though they don’t have a change room, or a half-decent exchange policy (something about people not wanting to buy someone else’s sex toys), I play the role and something interesting happens.

And, the giving doesn't end on the 10th.

The next couple of days, I carry on with the – now – charade. Going out to dinner with my friends, dessert is comped (and so is heartburn). Having drinks with the same friends, my booze isn’t free, but my martini glass was filled. Wherever I go, people are giving me things for free (or at a discount) and letting me get away with it even though it’s not my birthday anymore.

Hmmm... Maybe birthdays aren’t so bad. It’s getting older that sucks.

Happy birthday to me

Make a wish.

Just put your lips together and blow.

Birthday plans

Lunch is over and I’m in my mother’s kitchen washing the dishes. I might as well help out since I didn’t pay for the meal. While I’m drying a couple of plates, my mother asks me what I’m planning to do for my birthday.

“I dunno. Maybe going out with S for lunch,” I say.

“Why don’t you go down to your sister’s home?” she asks. My mother spends a few days a week at my sister's to help take care of my two nieces while my sister and BIL are at work.

“Why would I want to do that?” My tone is annoyed. “You’d want me to help babysit for my birthday? What’s the fun in that?”

“Well, you could come down, and we could all have lunch together.”

“But, I wouldn’t want to drive down there for lunch. There aren’t any restaurants in that area that I’d want to go to.”

“But, we can all celebrate together! You, and me and your father -” I cut her off mid-sentence.

“Oh, no. I do not want to do that. It’s always the same thing.” I flip my head back and sigh. “I want to go someplace, then he complains that he doesn’t want to go there, and we end up settling on some place he wants to go to make him happy. We should be making me happy because it’s my special day.”

If he has his way, it’s going to be a repeat of my university graduation.

**

To celebrate the culmination of four years of hard work, I make reservations at a nice restaurant that is very difficult to get into because it's incredibly popular. I'm saving it for this day because I feel like I deserve to commemorate my diploma with a big plate of pasta.

But, there's a problem: my father doesn't want to go because it's a 10 minute drive downtown. So, a fight breaks out and my father and I stop talking to each other for the rest of the day. No one ends up going out, and we all stay and heat up something to eat in my apartment.

**

When my mother realizes the conversation is over due to the silence on my behalf, she goes into the dining room and begins doddling around.

I am not going to sacrifice the one day that's supposed to celebrate my existance for the wants of others. It isn't fair to me. Let them do what they want on their birthdays. If it ever comes to that, I’d rather stay at home.

And, due to the fact I haven’t had any plans for the past few years, it's inevitable I won't be doing anything in 2008 since no one wants to do anything with me... again.

Where there's a will, there's a way

While having coffee with my parents, the conversation inevitably rolls around to the topic of death. They talk about it often, especially when they're able to feel 70 tapping on their shoulder with an arthritic finger.

They mention their wills and wonder if they’re updated. While they’re rambling on about horror stories of people not writing down their underground intentions, I realize that I don’t have a will. Fuck, I don’t even have a couple of words written down on a dirty napkin.

So, since my birthday is in two days, I think the best gift I can give myself (that I can afford, of course) is a will. In it, I plan to write down what I won’t be giving to whom.

Basically, my tens of dollars will be going to charity and not to anyone else. My family and friends already have money; they don't need any more. Like that, those who really deserve it will finally be able to do good with those measly funds instead of using it to buy things for themselves.

It’s like guaranteeing eternal joy. Schadenfreude for the soul. Why should they be happy that I'm dead? I sure as hell won't be.

National holiday in Canada

January 10th is a national holiday in Canada. People have the day off work. The stores are closed. There are parades, with floats and marchers. Everyone is happy. And, it’s all because they’re celebrating my birthday.

It’s too bad I’m the only one who doesn’t enjoy partaking in the fun. It has nothing to do with getting older (I’ll only be 25), looking older (I’ll only look 25), and feeling older (I’ll only feel 105).

To me, birthdays symbolize personal achievement markers. Sadly, my markers aren’t where I want them to be.

Being someone who sets high goals for himself, it bothers me when I don’t reach them. I feel like a failure. Those who are close to me know I’m disappointed and they feel it, too. They want me to be happy, but it’s hard when I can’t do it by myself.

I have a list of things I want to accomplish, and I haven’t done the things that matter the most. True, some of the superfluous items have been checked off (contributing editor, MTV appearances), but they’re only the icing on the cake. What happens when there’s no cake? You get left with a lot of empty calories.

I don’t have a career, I barely have a job, I don’t own property, I hardly get to travel (even to the store). And, don’t get me started on a relationship. I have enough problems being single.

So, what is there to celebrate? Failure? Let me pull some pom-poms out of my ass and shake them – my ass included.

On the bright side, I have a full year to accomplish what many people take a full decade to do. And, if that isn’t cause for celebration, I don’t know what is.

Woo hoo!

Surrogate single

Since I am – usually – one of the single people at social functions, I find that I feel out of place just for the fact that I am different than everyone else due to my relationship status.

While some people couldn’t care less, others tend to gravitate towards me like a wounded animal on the side of the road. Apparently, they think it’s sad to be single in public.

Quite often, I am at these shindigs by the mercy of an invited guest: the surrogate single. I am the snappily dressed guy with the even snappier comeback who entertains my date and mingles amongst the guests in order to make everyone ask “Who is that guy? You know, that one over there? No, not him. The one with the really nice teeth. Oh yeah, him. Ummm...”

But, I think being single is a good thing, and I’m assuming I’m not the only one who feels this way when at a get-together.

To back up this assumption, I ask a few people what they think of being a surrogate single. Even though the answers range from one of the spectrum to the other, most of them consider singledom a plus, rather than a minus. And, not all of the thoughts are from single people - more than half of them are from couples.

Some of them say surrogate singles…

- Have the better stories to tell because they actually go out (and live a life).
- Can make a fool of themselves because they’re not seeing these people again.
- Tend to always look good in case they meet someone “special.”
- Can sneak out of an event if it gets boring.
- Can bail out if there is the prospect of sex (how many couples can do that?).
- Don't go to bed when the sun goes down (unlike parents).

So, maybe it isn't that bad being single. Then again, I can't use the excuse of having to tuck my children into bed to leave a party early. Damn. Maybe I can borrow someone's kid if I'm really desperate.

Bulemia doesn't work

Bulemia doesn't seem to work in getting rid of those extra all-you-can-eat-buffet pounds I gained on New Years Day. Fuck.

Fighter

A fight occurs when one is engaged in battle or in single combat, defending oneself against, or to subdue/defeat/destroy an adversary, or to striving vigorously for or against something.

I am one of those in the action. I am a fighter.

There’s a stance that has become second nature to me. The pose is one of an alert caginess: a wide stance, with my arms to the side, fingers curled into fists, and my eyes looking darting around, looking for threats.

This is one of the reasons why I can seem intimidating at first glance. When I don’t feel a threat, I relax, and the muscles loosen. But, it’s difficult for me to relinquish this kind of control.

For years, I’ve been fighting against forces that I can’t see and ones that I can. While there are many in the world who are worse than I am, there are also many that are not.

Those who say I should stop fighting are those who don’t have to. They don’t know that I’ve never been given anything on a silver platter. They also don't know that if you don't fight for what you want and believe in, it will never come your way.

Quite often, I have to do a thousand times better than others to prove my worthiness. But, that wouldn’t always work, because then I’d become a threat to those who didn’t bother to try. Unfortunately, those who feel threatened are the ones with the power (and the last thing you do is alienate those who have the upper hand).

People who don’t know my story (and very few do), brush me off as being an angry and bitter man after reading a few of my posts. They don’t read any further because they think they don't need to. They feel like they understand what I'm thinking of, but they don't understand my mindset. There’s so much more, but it's lost within the lack of context.

When I cut myself, I bleed, and a lot of people don't want to see the wound. I may be able to communicate the pain through words because there’s more to the anguish than just a gash, and I don't want to get hurt.

That’s why I’m always on edge - I'm on the lookout for those who can potentially harm me. No matter how I try to avoid reliving the past, history has a way of repeating itself with me. The walls come down, but the fists rise up.

The day I let my guard down is when they attack. But, I won’t let my guard down. Ever. I’ll keep on fighting until I win. And, I have to win. Someday.

Looking forward

As I look back in the year that was 2007, I also have to look forward to 2008. Since it is a new year, there are those who feel the need to make resolutions. Clean slate. Tabula rasa.

For some, it’s something of a physical nature (lose weight, quit smoking), while others it’s something else (find a new job, travel to a foreign land).

I don’t do resolutions and haven’t for several years. I feel like I don’t need to. A resolution is indicative of an error that needs to be changed. Are there things about me that need to change? Probably. But, that’s personal growth.

Human Nature will be reflective of this growth. The site itself won’t change, but the person behind it will. I will continue to better myself in little ways, even though I don't know what they are. What will be stable is a series of bitter and angry (and hopefully hilarious) posts. This site will still be comprised of a series stories of me falling flat on my face and picking myself up, while having perfect teeth and a touch of dignity/denial.

To warn my eight readers, if/when I write something that you don’t agree with, I won’t apologize for my thoughts. I still love you, but my opinions are my own. To those who were offended in the past will be offended in the future.

As you know, unlike all of you, I am not perfect. There are some flaws that can't be covered up. I know what they are, and they can be seen through the photoshop and injectible fillers. This funny man sometimes cries through the tears. But, with the world being in the state that it's in, I want to leave the sadness behind. Let me entertain you. Let me be your clown. I mean, I’ve got the curly hair already.

Now, if you don't mind, I have to put on my red nose and big floppy shoes to go out for lunch with the family. I hope no one is wearing the same thing as me 'cause that would be so embarassing.